“Don’t leave me, Claire.”
“Don’t make me!” she cried.
Her throat was thick with tears. Bitterness stole through her. All her angry hurt flooded out.
“You loved Lily and William. Why can’t you love me? Why can’t you love Lexie? Why can’t you love us?”
They were shattering, those words—
Just like her heart.
And agony for both of them.
“Gray! Don’t you see, you’re tearing me apart! I can’t live with ghosts between us.”
She meant Oliver. She meant Lily. She meant William.
An icy shroud of despair descended. There was so much tumult inside her, she could scarcely bear it. She understood his pain, in an anguished kind of way. But it didn’t eclipse her own, and the rawness of her heart etched a bitter scar upon her soul.
“I will not live with only a part of you. I want all of you . . . or none at all.”
Gray’s mouth twisted. “What do you see when you look at me? At the man who killed your brother?”
Claire did not speak.
“Answer me!”
“I no longer see the man who killed my brother. Once—once I did. Once that was all I could see. But not any longer. I’ve let go of Oliver. But so must you. Let go of Lily and William, or they’ll haunt you forever.”
His voice was gritty. “You didn’t answer, Claire. Tell me. What do you see when you look at me?”
“I see the man I married. The father of my daughter.” The man I love. Oh, don’t you know you have another child, she longed to cry! You have Lexie! You have me.
A burning ache stung her throat.
“I want more nights with you, Gray. I want more days like today.”
The cords in his neck stood taut. He spoke not a word.
“How can you do this?” she almost screamed. “You don’t love me. You don’t even love Lexie!”
“That’s not true. Of course I love her.”
“I want to go home,” she sobbed.
“You are home. This is your home. My home. Our daughter’s home.”
“It’s a prison—and you’re trapped here with Lily and William!” The truth was like a stab in the heart.
“I want to go home,” she said again. “Home to Wildewood. I cannot live like this. I won’t! Let me go, Gray. Let me go!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
When Claire left for Wildewood the following morning, Gray had already departed for London. It was in his mind that when he was able, he would close up the house for good. There were too many broken dreams left behind. Too many hurtful memories.
In London, he shut himself away in his study.
The trays left in the hall by the butler were left untouched.
When he came out, it was to have Dawes fetch another bottle of brandy.
Such was the state of affairs when Dawes admitted the Duke of Braddock.
Clive did not ask admittance into the study. He simply strolled in boldly. “Gray, I saw your carriage—”
Gray reared up from the shadows. He’d been sleeping on a small settee. “What the bloody hell—”
“Yes,” drawled the duke. “My sentiments exactly.” He went to the windows and tugged the drapes wide. Sunshine flooded the room.
Gray scowled. He sat back, shoving his fingers through his hair. His shirt was half in, half out. “What the devil are you doing?” He regarded his friend through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Get the hell out, Clive.”
“I think not,” said the duke.
He took a step toward his friend, only to stop cold.
“Good Lord! Is this stench what I smell like when I’m sotted?” He sniffed in distaste.
“A good deal worse,” snarled Gray.
Clive picked up the cravat that lay unwound on a chair, the jacket thrown to the floor.
Gray glared at him. “For pity’s sake, you are not my maid! If you want to do something for me, get me another bottle!”
A black brow hiked upward as Clive considered his friend. “I think I shall join you, after all.” Clive claimed a glass from the tray and poured while Gray moved to sit behind the desk. Then Clive took the chair across from him.
“Gray,” he said quietly, “what the devil are you doing? What the blazes is going on?”
Silence spun out. For the longest time Gray said nothing. Then: “She’s left me.”
“Claire?”
“Of course it’s Claire! She’s gone back to Wildewood.”
“Whatever for?”
His mouth twisted. “I am doing as my wife wants. She wants me to leave her alone, and so I have.”
“Is that what she said?”
“She didn’t need to.”
“You fool.” Clive didn’t bandy words. “You blind, bloody fool.”
Gray’s eyes narrowed. “I am your friend and so I will forget you said that.”
He lifted his glass to his lips, but did not drink. Slowly he lowered it.
“It hurts to love her,” he whispered.
“Then treat her like it. Don’t turn your back on her!”
“I did not turn my back. Is that what you think?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.” Clive was frustrated. “For God’s sake, man, she’s your wife. You should be with her!”
“She accused me of running away. But I’m not! I just—couldn’t stay there. It’s too . . . empty.”
“And so you will wallow in self-pity, the way you have since Lily died.”
“Watch your tongue, Clive!”
“Oh, come. You know it’s true.”
Gray’s lips thinned. “Clair is better off without me.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. She’s better off without you.” The duke gave a nod.
Gray’s eyes glinted but he said nothing.
The duke set aside his glass. “Listen to me. I’m the last man to offer advice when it comes to love—”
“Yes,” Gray bit out. “You are the last man who should offer advice. So don’t.”
“You stupid fool, would you throw away what you have?”
“Clive, didn’t you hear me? She doesn’t want me.”
“And you will not fight for her? For the both of you? For all of you? Will you just give in?”
Gray reached for the bottle. “Another?” he drawled.
The duke’s eyes narrowed. Bluntly, he spoke. “You will lose her, Gray.”
“What do you know of it? You have no experience with marriage. You have no experience with love!”
“Listen to me. I’ve seen the way you look at her, Gray. I know you love her.”
“Yes, well, that’s all well and good, but it doesn’t seem to matter to my wife.”
“Have you told her you love her?”
Gray’s eyes slid away.
Clive sighed. “I thought not.”
As it happened, Clive hadn’t been gone more than a few minutes when the knocker sounded again.
The butler admitted Charlotte Sutherland. “Good day, Dawes,” she greeted him. “Where may I find my son and daughter-in-law?”
Dawes looked almost guilty. “You’ll find my lord in his study.”
Charlotte smelled the odor of stale smoke and liquor even before she entered. “Gray! My word, what are you about? Where are Claire and Alexa?”
“They’re at Wildewood, Mother.”
“Gray!”
“Have you come to counsel me, too? You needn’t bother. I’ve already received a lecture from Clive.”
“Clive!”
Her son smiled grimly. “Yes. That’s what I thought, too.”
“Gray, what is going on?”
“As I told Clive, my wife has left me.”
Charlotte was shocked.
“She’s better off without me, Mother. I deserve this.”
“Rubbish!”
“She thinks I don’t love Lexie.”
“Poppycock!”
Gray was sprawled on the settee. Charlotte sat and took his
hands in hers. “Gray . . . it was hardly an ideal situation when the two of you first wed. But Claire loves you. I’ve seen it. You must trust her, my son. You must trust yourself.”
Gray shook his head. He stared straight ahead until his eyes grew dry and began to water.
“You don’t understand.” His voice grew hoarse. “I—haven’t been a very good husband. I haven’t been a very good father.”
“Dearest, we all make mistakes. Don’t let the past get in your way. Don’t let it stand in the way of your feelings for Claire. She will heal you, if only you will let her.”
As it happened, at that moment, Penelope sat in the drawing room at Wildewood. She had come immediately upon receiving a letter from Claire.
Penelope held her old friend’s hands, her eyes swimming. “Claire,” she whispered, “Gray loves you. I know it! You’re not a coward. Give him a chance. Give your marriage a chance.”
“I’m afraid,” Claire whispered. “I want . . . what I’m afraid he can’t give.”
Penelope laid a hand on hers. “I don’t believe that, Claire. Give him a chance. Give your marriage another chance.”
“Go home to your wife,” said Clive.
“Go home to your husband,” said Penelope.
“Go home to your family,” said Charlotte.
In London, Gray pondered.
At Wildewood, Claire pondered.
She wasn’t yet ready to give up.
Neither was Gray. But first—first there was something he knew he must do.
Upon arriving at Brightwood from Wildewood, after Penelope had come to speak to her, Claire was disappointed to find that Gray had gone to London. Lexie was sleeping, sweet little mite, so she put her to bed in the nursery. A nap was in order for her as well. After dinner and a good night’s rest, she decided, she and Lexie would travel to London.
She would go to the ends of the earth for her husband, if that’s what it took.
London seemed a small enough distance to travel after the long, long journey they had endured. She was more determined than ever. They belonged together, she and Gray. She wanted more children. Gray’s children. As many as God willed. She wanted them to share the present, future hopes and dreams.
She didn’t hear when Gray arrived home. Mrs. Henderson told him Claire was napping, so he headed for the stairs.
He started to pass the nursery, but a rustle caught his attention. He glanced inside just as his daughter began to cry.
Her nurse didn’t appear. He stood uncertainly.
Finally, he stepped in, slowly crossing to the cradle.
The baby was squalling in earnest now. Her cries gained pitch and volume.
Gray stood as if paralyzed, staring down at her.
Dammit, where was her nurse? Gray stood helpless above her.
“Hush, little one. Hush.”
She cried harder.
Unable to bear it any longer, he reached out and slid his hands beneath her body.
She stopped screaming the instant he touched her.
Time stood still.
Slowly, as if it hurt—as indeed it did!—he brought the babe toward his chest.
There was a blanket covering half her face. Perhaps that was why she cried. He pushed it aside, away from her nose and mouth.
Everything inside him seemed to freeze.
He remembered holding William—on his chest—rubbing his back during those times he fussed at night . . . holding him while Lily slept.
Not once had he done that with this babe.
She drew his gaze helplessly. Gray allowed himself to look at his daughter—really look at her.
Soft, golden hair covered her scalp, a shade lighter than Claire’s. Her cheeks were rosy and plump.
His chest grew tight. Raw emotion seared his soul. He touched her cheek. Clasping her tight against his chest, he looked into eyes as pure as the skies above. His eyes—
A dry, jagged sound broke from his throat.
“Lexie. Oh, God, Lexie.”
Chapter Thirty
Claire watched from the doorway, the back of her hand dammed against her mouth to keep from crying out. Her heart constricted; her eyes were misty and wet. She couldn’t hold back a sob, and Gray looked up.
Wordlessly, he held out a hand.
On shaky legs she crossed to him.
He laid his hand alongside her neck and tipped her face up to his. “I pray that you can forgive me, Claire. I’ve done so many things—”
His voice wasn’t entirely steady. The catch in it cleaved her in two. Her fingers stole up and pressed against his lips. She gave a shake of her head. “I don’t want to think of that. It’s been a long journey, but what matters is now. What matters is the future.”
His gaze roved hers. “I love you, Claire. I love you more with every breath. I need you more with every breath.”
Joy surged through her. She buried her face against his neck, her throat hot. “Oh, Gray, I love you, too,” she cried. “I love you so.”
His thumb slid down her throat. He lowered his head to hers.
A sudden cry reminded them they weren’t alone. Lexie was nuzzling against his chest, her face turned toward him, crinkling as she gave a demanding cry.
Gray’s laugh was rusty. “My pet, I can’t help you. I think you need your mother.”
He passed her to Claire.
Later, when Lexie had been fed and lay sleeping in her cradle, Gray caught her hand and brought it to his lips.
He took a deep breath, his gaze searching hers. “There’s something I need to do,” he said quietly.
Claire lifted her chin. “I know,” she whispered. The muscles in her throat locked tight. She read what was in his mind. In his soul.
A few minutes later she watched from their bedroom window as Gray’s legs carried him toward the hill near the church.
He was going to say his good-byes to Lily and William.
Her eyes grew damp all over again.
He returned a short while later. As he entered their bedchamber, he raised his head.
Her eyes clung to his. Clung . . . and held.
She sensed a peacefulness within him, a peacefulness that had never been there before.
Wordlessly he held out his hand.
This time when Claire raised her face to his, her smile was dazzling.
“Welcome home, my love,” she whispered.
In the nursery, Lexie had just begun to sit upright by herself.
“I can’t believe how quickly she’s growing,“ her mother marveled.
“Soon she’ll be walking to us,” said Gray.
Claire laughed. “I can’t wait!”
Gray’s eyes turned a smoky blue. He captured her in his arms and nuzzled the side of her neck. “What do you say we give her a brother? Or a sister?”
Claire tried to hold back a smile and couldn’t.
Gray’s lips quirked. “I know that look, my love. What is it you’re hiding?”
She splayed her fingers wide on his chest, loving the muscles beneath her fingertips. “So you think we should give our daughter a brother or sister?”
“I do.”
“And what would you say if I told you we already have?”
His lips quirked. “Well,” he chuckled, “I can’t say I’m surprised . . .”
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The Marquess of Ranelaw will never forgive Godfrey Demarest for ruining his sister—now the time has come to repay the villain in the same coin. But one intriguing impediment stands in the way of Nicholas’s vengeance: Miss Antonia Smith, companion to his foe’s daughter. Having herself been deceived and disgraced by a rogue, Antonia vows to protect her charge from the same cruel fate. She rec
ognizes Ranelaw for the shameless blackguard he is, and will devote every ounce of her resolve to thwarting him. But Antonia has always had a fatal weakness for rakes . . .
London
April 1827
Beneath hooded eyelids, Nicholas Challoner, Marquess of Ranelaw, surveyed the whirling snowstorm of white dresses. A debutantes’ ball was the last place the ton expected to encounter a rake of his appalling reputation. A rake of his appalling reputation should know better than to appear at any such respectable gathering.
With his arrival, the chatter faltered away to silence. Ranelaw was accustomed to causing a flutter. Neither curiosity nor disapproval distracted him. As the orchestra scratched a trite écossaise, he scanned the room for his prey.
Ah, yes . . .
His jaded gaze settled upon his mark.
The chit wore white. Of course. The color symbolized purity. It convinced buyers in this particular market that no human hand had sullied the merchandise.
For Miss Cassandra Demarest, he’d ensure that promise was a lie. Nothing much excited him these days, but as he contemplated his victim, satisfaction stirred in his gut.
After the brief, shocked silence, the room exploded into hubbub. Clearly Ranelaw wasn’t the only person convinced he belonged elsewhere.
A fiery, subterranean elsewhere.
The guests were right to be perturbed. He carried mayhem in his soul.
A smile of wicked anticipation teased at his lips as he studied the girl. Until a caricature in black stepped between him and his object of interest, spoiling the view. He frowned, then turned when Viscount Thorpe spoke beside him.
“Sure you’re ready for this, old man? The tabbies are giving you the cold eye and you haven’t asked Miss Demarest to dance yet.”
“A man reaches the age to set up his nursery, Thorpe.” He glanced up again, seeking his quarry. The black barrier hindering his inspection resolved itself into a tall woman with a nondescript face. At least what he saw was nondescript, under tinted spectacles and a lace cap with ugly, dangling lappets.
Thorpe scoffed. “Miss Demarest won’t give you the time of day, my good fellow.”
The Sins of Viscount Sutherland Page 23